


The Importance Of Being Spidey

by copperbadge, scifigrl47



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Has Issues, Gen, Identity Porn, Mistaken Identity, News Media, Newspapers, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:37:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5285780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Daily Bugle has some peculiar ideas about Clint Barton and a spandex bodysuit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Importance Of Being Spidey

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in front of a live audience on LiveStream on November 23, 2015; Sci and Sam tag-teamed in a googledoc while fandom looked on and mocked. :D

“I’m not Spider-Man.”

“Right.” Tony reached for the nearest coffee cup. It wasn’t the freshest coffee cup, but it was the closest, and that made it the best one automatically. “I’ll, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Clint leaned over the workbench. “No, seriously. I’m not Spider-Man.”

Tony caught the odd note in his voice and looked up, his mouth still hovering over the rim of his coffee cup. “Riiiiiight,” he said, and took a long sip. Clint was still staring at him, and Tony put the coffee cup down. “Is there a reason why you chose to tell me this incredibly obvious fact?”

“Cause some people think I am,” Clint said.

“People? What people? I mean, who could possibly-”

Clint held up The Daily Bugle. “PEOPLE,” Clint said, because yes, right there on the front page was a ten point headline that read “Avenger Does Double Duty?” and under that, a picture of Clint hanging upside down by one leg from a fire escape, an arrow in his teeth and a finger pointed at someone out of the frame.

Tony stared it. “That’s stupid,” he said at last, going back to his coffee. “That is-” He shook his head, a giggle bubbling in his chest. He bit his lip, trying to keep it to himself. “Wow, even for the Bugle, that’s a reach.”

Clint tossed the paper down on the workbench and slumped across from Tony. “It’s not that I COULDN’T be Spider-Man-” he started.

“Your ankle is stuck in the railing in that picture, isn’t it?” Tony commented, going back to his holographic programming.

“Look, it happens, I mean, sometimes, these things happen to all of us,” Clint said, waving a hand through the air.

“Not to me,” Tony pointed out.

“Thor used you like a baseball bat to hit a robot into the ocean last week, and you’re mocking me for getting my leg stuck on a fire escape?”

Tony’s head tipped to the side. “There’s a difference,” he pointed out, “between a teammate betraying you in a horrible, unforgivable way and just being such a klutz that you can’t manage a set of stairs.”

“They were wet,” Clint said, resting his chin on the edge of the workbench.

“You look like a sad golden retriever, you know that, right? You look like you’re going to cry or maybe bite someone,” Tony told him.

“I could be Spider-Man,” Clint said.

“But you’re not,” Tony said. “And so the question is, why the hell does the Bugle think you are? And let’s not pretend that photo is the origin of this, I mean, Jameson’s insane but he usually arrives at his crazy through legit means and then lets it spiral out of control in ever increasing waves of delusion. So he found that picture and slapped it under the headline, but he already had the headline, didn’t he?”

"Who had what headline?" Steve asked, barging through the door to the workshop like he had an engraved invitation. (Maybe he did. Tony had done stranger things.) "Also, there is a mob outside Stark Tower who want to ask me if Clint is Spider-Man, which is kind of ridiculous, but seems like it probably has some sort of root in reality?"

"Not reality," Tony said, as Clint held up the newspaper. "J. Jonah Jameson."

"That nice old fella from the newspaper? Bugle has the best crosswords," Steve said, taking the newspaper and unfolding it, studying the headline. 

"You just like him because he sucks up to you, the great American hero," Clint complained. 

"Well, it's more than some of you do," Steve replied. Eyes on the headline, his fingers gently ruffled the pages and tugged out the Arts section.

"You -- are you stealing my crossword?" Clint demanded, snatching the paper back. The Arts section stayed in Steve's left hand. 

"Children," Tony warned. 

"So this is why all the reporters were shoving microphones in my face like it was the war all over again," Steve said. "A man likes to go for a run in the morning without the press, Clint."

"This isn't my fault!"

"Well, you're the one dangling," Steve pointed out.

"He got stuck," Tony said into his coffee. 

"No throwing stones, Glass House," Steve ordered. 

"Here's the thing," Tony said. "That picture isn't nearly enough to convince anyone that Clint Barton is the graceful, witty webslinger who occasionally invades our fights and gets Jameson's temper up."

"Do you have a crush on Spider-man or are you just being super mean to me?" Clint asked.

"Could be both," Steve said. "So you want to know why Jameson came up with the idea and _then_ put the picture in the paper?"

"More or less," Tony said. 

"Well, I mean, it's not entirely out of the question. If he wanted to engage in some vigilantism that SHIELD wouldn't approve of. Or I wouldn't," Steve said.

"I'm NOT SPIDER-MAN," Clint yelped.

"No, I know that," Steve said, patting his head reassuringly. Clint brushed him off, annoyed. "But he probably didn't -- "

He stopped, face going expressionless. 

"What?" Clint asked.

"Someone might have suggested it to him," Steve said, voice darkly prescient. 

"Who would do that?" Clint said. Then he gaped. "Did _Spider-man_ do it?"

"I gotta go see a man about a spider," Steve said, and walked off, muttering darkly. 

"Well if you're at the Bugle offices please inform them I am not Spider-man!" Clint yelled. 

"Come with me and tell them yourself!" Steve yelled back.

"Oh, I am not missing this," Tony said, setting his coffee down with a thump and hurrying after them.

Steve gave him a look. “Are you going outside in that?” he asked.

“Who are you, my PA?” Tony shot back with a grin. “Look, we need someone to take some heat off of Clint, right, so the easiest way to do that is to have me be outside in these pants.”

“You just don’t want to change your pants, do you?” Steve asked.

“It seems like a waste of time, these are mostly intact, and the only major grease stain is on the ankle,” Tony said, “and what do we really care, I mean-”

“Go change,” Steve said.

“No, you’re trying to ditch me, let’s go-”

“I will call Pepper, Stark.”

“Fine, going to change.”

When he got down to the garage ten minutes later in distinctly more public-worthy pants, Steve was leaning against a car, and Clint was balanced on top of the car in a strange, painful looking handstand, his back curved in an unnatural curve. “Did he break again?” Tony asked, hustling across the garage with the keys to his favorite little coupe in his hand. He flicked them around his thumb, enjoying the way they caught the light. “I hate to sound all IT Help Desk here, but sometimes you need to turn him off and back on again to make him work properly-”

“Don’t ask me, he’s mumbling to himself and showing off moves that probably didn’t seem like a good idea back when he was a carnie, now they’re just a disaster waiting to happen,” Steve said, his arms crossed over his chest, a faint smile curling his mouth. He gave Tony a quick look.

Tony held his hands out to his sides. “Better?”

“You’re presentable,” Steve told him.

“My god, you’re hard to impress,” Tony said. He tossed the keys into the air, and Steve snagged them with a flick of his wrist. “Want me to go get the tux?”

“Get in the car, Stark,” Steve said. He opened the door, and slid into the driver’s seat. 

Tony leaned a hand on the car’s roof. “Hey, Pippin, get your ass in the damn car, and if you’ve scratched the paint, I’m going to break everything you own, slowly and painfully.”

“How can breaking my stuff be painful?”

“I count your bones as being ‘your stuff,’” Tony pointed out.

Clint paused. “Point,” he said, and rolled out of his handstand, thumping his way across the windshield and over the hood.

Tony watched him, his mouth gaping open. “I cannot believe you didn’t just break the windshield,” he managed, once he could breathe again.

“I only do that when I don’t want to,” Clint pointed out, loping around to the back seat of the car, and slapping the roof. “To the Bugle, my good man!” he crowed, before sliding into the back seat behind Tony.

“We can throw him in the Hudson,” Tony suggested.

Steve started the car with a quick twist of his wrist. “Get in, or get left behind,” he said, his eyes dancing.

Tony got in. “you enjoy driving in this city more than is remotely sane,” he said. 

“So do you.”

“And I’m not remotely sane, see, you’ve made my point for me.”

“If you two start making out, I’m getting out,” Clint said.

“Promise?” Tony asked, smirking at him in the rear view mirror.

Riding with Steve behind the wheel was a little like riding with a grandfather who _had once been_ the angriest, most illegal cab driver in existence. Tony blamed the war. At least this time he knew what was coming and could deal with the terrifying juxtaposition of what could only be called _offensive_ driving and very mild swearing. 

"So's your old man!" Steve yelled at one point as a car blew past them, horn blaring, and jerked his whole hand at them because he hadn't yet mastered flipping the bird without blushing at its rudeness. 

"If you want to start making out, that'd give me an excuse to get out. It might save my life," Clint remarked. 

"We're almost there, stop complaining," Steve said, and then added, "Parking!" and swung across four lanes of traffic, pulling a beautiful swivel using both gearshift and handbrake, sliding into an open spot that just barely fit the car.

"Well, it's a good thing the Bugle coffee sucks, because now I don't need any," Tony said, gingerly easing out of the car. People were gathered, less because of three famous people getting out of a car and more because they were waiting for the car crash that looked so imminent. 

"You two wait in the lobby," Steve said, leading them into the impressive (if somewhat elderly) marble reception room of the Bugle. Beneath their feet, the subterranean press thumped gently. 

"What? No," Tony said. 

"Just for a second, Tony, I have to have a word with someone before we talk to Jameson," Steve said, holding up his hands. "Keep Clint from climbing the walls."

"He means that literally," Tony said to Clint.

"I bet I could," Clint said thoughtfully, looking up the sheer marble-paneled walls. "This marble's old, probably crumbly."

"Tony!" Steve called over his shoulder.

"On it!" Tony called back. 

As soon as Steve was out of eyeshot, Tony turned to Clint.

"Bet you ten bucks you can't get to the ceiling," he said.

"Sucker, I'd've done it for a donut," Clint replied. 

***

Peter was halfway across the newsroom, his arms overloaded with what looked to be old photocopy files of previous news cycles, when he spotted Steve heading in his direction. Peter, to his credit, did not fling the files directly into the air when he fled, instead he tossed them at the nearest desk, sending a jar of pencils, a keyboard, and half a cup of coffee crashing to the floor instead.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, his voice high and not a little bit hysterical. “Sorry, I’ll just get something, something to clean that up-” And then he took off at a pace just barely below a run for the nearest escape route. 

He made it through the door to the stairs right before a hand closed on his collar, yanking him back. “Hi,” Steve said, and the door closed behind them with a very final sounding bang. “What’s up?”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Not much,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to look casual. It wasn’t particularly successful. “What’s up with you, Cap?”

Steve leaned in, a thin smile creasing his cheeks. “Why’d you run?” he asked.

“Cardio. Workplace… Cardio,” Peter said, with a smile. “It’s very important. Keeps the blood flowing. Desk jobs. Silent killers. Hard. To.” He took a deep breath. “This isn’t working at all, is it?”

“Not so much, no,” Steve said. But his hand loosened, the fabric of Peter’s collar slipping through his fingers and Peter let his weight settle back on his heels again. “Seriously now.”

“Seriously, I might’ve panicked. A little bit. Small amount of panic, it’s nearly not a thing, I don’t think we have to make it a thing, it’s a thing that will blow over in like, two days,” Peter said. Steve gave him a look, clearly unimpressed by that barrage of words, and the order Peter had chosen to put them in. 

“It’s J. Jonah,” Peter said. “He’s going to forget about it, Cap. Probably after I try to get paid for the photos of Clint that he told me to take. That’s roughly when his attention span wanes. When it starts costing him something, but mostly when it starts costing him money.”

He took a deep breath. “I mean, unless something reminds him of it, and what are the chances of that happening?”

The door opened and Peter and Steve jumped apart as Ben Urich came pelting through. He blinked at Peter, his glasses catching the lights of the stairwell. “Parker,” he said, his voice high and sharp, the way it got when he had something to write about, when he had a story right in front of him, ready to be recorded. “Grab your camera, let’s go.”

“Go?” Peter asked. “Go where?” he called after Ben, who was already halfway down the flight of stairs.

“Barton’s apparently hanging from the light fixture in the lobby!” Ben yelled back to him, and then he was gone.

Peter turned slowly to Steve, who was rubbing a hand over his face. “You… Brought him,” Peter said, his voice slow. “Why would you possibly bring him?” The words rose into something close to a shriek.

“He got into the backseat, seemed rude to knock him out into the middle of rush hour traffic,” Steve said, grabbing the railing and heading down the stairs, taking them two, then three at a time. 

“Regretting that human decency now, aren’t you?” Peter yelled at him, scrambling along in his wake.

“Happens a lot with Barton, I’ve got to admit,” Steve said. “And almost as often with Tony.”

"You brought TONY?" Peter demanded, voice rising again. 

"He -- "

"What, got in the front seat? Batted his eyelashes?" Peter demanded, following him down the stairs. "Is Black Widow there too? Did you text Captain Marvel? I mean, if Bruce Hulks out, it would at least be a distraction." 

"Bringing Carol actually probably would have been smarter," Steve mused, stopping in the doorway of the reception hall. He looked up. 

Clint was, technically, hanging from a light fixture in the hall. Peter had envisioned something slightly more acrobatic, perhaps dangling from one arm, or even from a crooked leg while he threw wads of paper at passers-by. 

Instead he appeared to be attached by a belt loop. 

"This looks bad," Clint yelled down.

"You've looked better," Steve agreed. Peter just stared. Then Steve looked down, and made a noise, and Peter decided he wasn't going to look down because that noise couldn't mean anything good. 

"This mess is your fault," Steve said. Peter kept resolutely looking at Clint. 

"I can't be held responsible for the manias of my boss," Peter replied. "Honestly, I was just trying to distract him and sell a photograph, I have a starving family -- "

"May is not starving," Steve said. 

"She might be. You never call her, you don't know." 

Peter looked down then, because he finally couldn't resist, and saw why Steve had made a noise. 

Tony Stark was sitting on the marble floor of the reception hall, ignoring both Clint and the cellphones aimed at -- well, everyone, at this point -- and he was wearing a paper hat. A pair of small children and several attractive women and men were sitting with him, paying attention to a third small child, who was apparently teaching them to make hats out of newspapers. 

Tony didn't look up until Steve came to loom over him, and then he grinned, tipping his paper hat back with a casual thumb. 

"I asked you to keep him grounded," Steve said.

"He's fine. You owe him ten dollars by the way," Tony said. 

"Why do I owe Clint ten dollars?" 

"Well, I made the bet, but I don't carry cash, and you always have a roll," Tony replied. "Who's your friend?"

Peter darted behind Steve, not quite ready to meet Tony Stark in the flesh rather than in their usual armor-and-spandex. Even if he was wearing a weird paper hat. 

"This is Peter," Steve said. "Peter, this is Tony Stark. I'd say that he's usually more put together than this, but that would be a lie."

"Did you know newspapermen used to make hats like this to keep the hair out of their eyes while they printed papers?" Tony asked. "I'm bringing Industrial Revolution back." 

"I did know that, seeing as how I grew up hawking newspapers," Steve said. "You want to apply that big, curious brain of yours to getting Clint off the ceiling before -- " 

"PARKER," a stentorian voice called across the lobby, and Peter hid himself fully behind Steve, who seemed like he was maybe, just maybe, helping a little. 

"I might have known you'd be at the center of this disturbance!" J. Jonah Jameson, unlit cigar clenched between his teeth, nostrils flaring, hair streaming wildly in all directions, descended on the lobby like the Wrath of God. A nickname he probably would have enjoyed. "Get back in the newsroom and -- " 

He stopped, shoes squeaking abruptly on the floor, as he took in Tony on the ground, Steve standing over him, and, after a brief hesitation, Clint hanging from the lighting. Finally he looked at Steve again.

"Captain," he said, with a wide, friendly smile. "Good to see you. Can I have someone get you a coffee?" 

“Know what?” Peter said, his voice somewhere between chipper and manic. “I should do that. That should be me. Let me just-”

“PARKER,” Jameson roared. “Where’s your camera?”

“Upstairs?” Peter asked hopefully. Jameson stared at him. Peter gave him a pained grin. “I should get that-” The sizzle of warning in the back of his head was the only warning that he got, and it was all that he needed. “Move!” he said to Tony, and grabbed as many kids as he could get his hands on.

As it turns out, he didn’t need to have bothered, as when Clint came crashing down to the ground, it was a good three or four feet away from where Tony and the kids were sitting. Tony gave him a look, then rolled his head in Peter’s direction. “I knew that was going to happen eventually,” he said, his voice laconic. “Engineer. Good with angles. And disasters.”

“You’re sitting on the floor wearing a hat made of newspaper,” Peter said, setting the kids he’d picked up back down. Neither of them seemed to be bothered by their sudden relocation, and instead just went right back to folding paper into little shapes.

“And I make it look good,” Tony said. “You okay, Barton?”

Clint lay there for a moment, then held up a thumb’s up. “Awesome,” he said.

“If this pathetic display is supposed to convince me that you’re not Spider-Man,” Jameson snapped, “you’re gonna have to work a hell of a lot harder at it!”

“He’s not Spider-Man,” Tony said.

Jameson turned on him. “Oh, you would say that,” he growled. “I know your type, Stark! Secrets, lies, the whole bailiwick.”

Tony stared up at him. “I have no idea what you’re saying,” he said at last. “Is that English? Is that English from this century?” He leaned back on his hands. “This is why papers are failing you know, you’re stuck in another decade or century or sometime that isn’t now, I don’t think that the specifics are really that important, the important thing is-”

“Tony,” Steve interrupted.

Jameson’s face was a color that Peter usually associated with tomatoes and the kind of apples that looked nice but tasted horrible. He stabbed a finger in Tony’s direction. “Stark, I will find out what you’re hiding, and I’ll see to it that it’s on the front page within the week,” he snarled.

“Awesome, looking forward to that,” Tony said, then he turned back to the paper being folded on the floor in front of him. “Hey, guys, ever hear the story of the Captain’s T-Shirt? Jarvis taught me this one, the first Jarvis, not current Jarvis, he’s- He doesn’t have have hands.”

Jameson stomped towards the elevators, and Steve pressed a hand to his forehead. “This,” he said, his voice pitched very low, audible to Peter’s ears only, “is your fault.”

“I would say that THIS is really more of Tony’s fault, with a little tiny bit of the fault being in Clint’s court, but Clint might be horribly damaged, so maybe we should let him off this time with just a warning, don’t you think?” Steve’s head came up, and he glared at Peter. Peter gave him a wan smile. “Seems the decent thing to do.”

“Peter,” Steve said, his voice very quiet, and very calm. “Fix this.”

Peter blinked. “How?” he asked.

“I don’t much care,” Steve said. He clapped a hand onto Peter’s shoulder. “Your mess. Clean it up. I'm going to go make nice with Jameson.”

Peter watched Steve head towards the elevator bank, calling out to Jameson; like magnets, the other two picked themselves up off the floor and followed. 

"How does he _do_ that?" he asked nobody in particular.

"S'Captain America," one of the small children said. "He's magic."

Peter rubbed the back of his head. "Well, I guess you're not wrong."

And then he got the Idea, which was probably a terrible idea, but honestly, it wasn't like he could make it much worse.

Probably.

***

"Look, I promise they'll behave once they're in a smaller room with less stimulus," Steve said, as Jameson poked the elevator button repeatedly. "Let's sit down and talk about this like rational adults." 

Jameson gave him a narrow look over the tip of his half-burnt cigar, but he nodded. "Fair enough. My office. This way." 

The ride in the elevator was quiet, but that was mainly because Clint was inspecting his new bruises and every time Tony opened his mouth, Steve raised an eyebrow. 

"Someone bring me coffee! Three coffees! And a lukewarm water for Mr. Stark!" Jameson yelled, parading them across the editorial department like a conquering hero. Steve smiled and tried to look like he didn't entirely approve of Jameson's behavior but couldn't say anything. The guy was a lot more pleasant at parties. 

Once they were settled in the office, Jameson behind his desk and in his own domain, he relaxed slightly. 

"Now, I think we all know," Steve began, "that Clint isn't Spider-man."

"I don't think we do, I don't think we know that," Jameson said, tipping back in his chair. 

"Okay, look, all superheroes share a certain relationship to the laws of physics," Tony began, and Steve turned to give him an inquiring look. Specifically a look that inquired if he really felt now was the time to bring this up. "But I mean, my God, he wouldn't fit in the spandex. Spidey's tiny. Tiny little guy."

"Prove it," Jameson said.

"Isn't that our line?" Steve asked, crossing his arms. "You haven't exactly proven that Clint is Spider-man."

"And I'm not," Clint put in.

"I don't have to prove it, I never said he was. I just _asked_. My readers are smart, I like to let them make up their own minds," Jameson said, a smirk spreading across his face. 

Steve opened his mouth to remark on that, but he was arrested by the sight of a red-hooded head appearing in Jameson's window, the one directly behind him. Twenty floors up. 

"Jameson, we both know how this goes," Tony was saying, and something about the 24-hour news cycle and the difference between libel and slander, but Steve couldn't tear his eyes from the window that was slowly opening, sliding upwards so that Spider-man could crawl over the sill and up the wall. 

"Well, let me ask you this, Stark," Jameson said, leaning over his desk and wagging a finger at Tony. "Have you ever personally seen Clint Barton and Spider-man in the same place at the same time?"

Steve cleared his throat. The other three looked at him, then followed his gaze upwards. Peter, sitting crosslegged on the ceiling, waved. 

"Hi," he said. "Not Clint Barton."

Jameson _lost his mind._ He shrieked and started throwing whatever was to hand -- a cup of pencils, a spare shoe from his desk drawer, a largish smartphone -- which Peter yelped and tried to dodge, while Tony fell over laughing and Clint yelled about someone getting photographic evidence. 

Peter went back out the window faster than Steve had seen anyone move in a long time. Jameson nearly went after him; if Clint hadn't grabbed him by the belt he might have tried. As it was he got head and shoulders through the open window and yelled obscenities that made even Tony look impressed. Steve joined Clint at the window and hauled him back inside, where Jameson shoved them both away and dropped into his chair, clutching his heart. 

“Wow,” Clint said, in the leaden silence that followed, “I’m GOOD.”

“You’re an idiot,” Steve said, pressing on the back of Jameson’s neck until he leaned over and put his head between his knees.

“I’m an idiot, or he’s an idiot?” Clint asked, sounding only mildly curious. 

“I think that we can agree that on this one point? You’re both equal,” Steve said.

“I think we should capitalize on this,” Tony said, leaning back in his chair. He waved a hand through the air, as if he was imagining a headline. “You Can Be Spidey, Too!” He grinned. “Avengers Fitness Challenge for the Youth of New York.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t encourage children to imitate the team member with the least regard for his own health and safety,” Steve said.

“Wait, are you talking about me, or Spider-Man?” Clint asked.

“Now that you mention it, either of you,” Steve said.

“Aw, come on, Cap, I-”

There was a slight, cautious knock on the door, and Peter leaned in. “Uh, coffee?” he asked, holding up the cardboard holder.

“Here,” Tony said, holding up his hand. He looked at Jameson, who still looked like he was on the edge of a heart attack or a stroke. “Or, you know what? I think I’ll take that coffee to go.”

 

They made a hasty retreat after that, though not so hasty that Clint couldn't stop to grab a coffee from Peter's tray first. When they got outside, Steve heaved a sigh of relief, and Tony leaned against the car, stretching.

"Well," Clint said brightly. "I think we've all learned an important lesson."

"What's that?" Steve asked, stealing a sip of Tony's coffee. Nice; Peter must have stopped at Starbucks on the way back. 

"The vital importance of being Earnest," Clint announced.

Tony looked at him, confused. "What?"

"Oh, nothing, I've just always wanted to say that," Clint replied. He slid in through the open back-seat window and poked his head out. "Come on, let's get some dinner. Food's on Tony, because he's rich!" 

"He can't really be Spider-man, can he?" Tony asked Steve in a low voice. 

"No, but I bet they have a team-up soon that someone gets some good newspaper snaps of," Steve said, patting Tony on the shoulder. "Hop in, I know a good burger place."

**Author's Note:**

> For reference, a Newspaper Hat is a real thing, and you can [find folding instructions here](http://www.origami-instructions.com/origami-painters-hat.html); the Captain's T-Shirt is also real, and you can [find that story here.](http://www.instructables.com/id/Captains-T-shirt-Story/)


End file.
